Fall of the Sparrow
by Carlanime
Summary: The second episode for an imaginary season three. Ryan's changing relationship with Joan has not altered his approach to life. Joan realizes that sometimes, even painful connections should not be severed.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** Neither the characters nor setting belong to me, and no money is being made from this fanfic.

**Dedication: **I'd like to take this opportunity to thank sg1niner, TJ-TeeJay, Tanya13, dizzily-luving-tom, Pamie884, jumping-jo, house-dragon, Ysissa, aaron de l'encre, Coriel, ProcrastinationQueen and Parisienne At Heart for encouraging me to continue. This episode is for you guys.

In the nightmare Joan is younger, much younger, and her face is still babyishly chubby. She is standing upright, but she isn't standing _on_ anything. There is water all around her. Down, down, down, the dream Joan says, and it is either a command or a description, because she is sinking, the light growing fainter, the tug of the waves lessening as she retreats beneath them. Finally her feet touch sand, and she looks up, realizing in that terrifying moment that she is cold through, and in complete darkness. I'm at the bottom, she says, and her tiny voice echoes, emphasizing that she is utterly alone.

At that moment the real Joan sat up in bed, her pyjamas drenched with sweat, and screamed.

_Later_

"Girardi, you look terrible," Grace said as they headed to class. "You're pale, and not a romantic pale. More a sort of pale green."

"Thank you, Grace," Joan said. "You have a real future ahead of you in the greeting-card industry."

Grace shrugged. "I'm just saying," she said. "You have that whole 'Night of the Living Dead' thing going on."

"I didn't sleep well last night," Joan said shortly.

"I want to talk to you," said an annoying, all-too-familiar, voice from behind her. Joan turned.

"And this morning's shaping up to be its own form of nightmare," she said to no one in particular.

"I'm serious," Iris said shrilly. "How can you live with what you've done?"

Joan blinked. "What I've done?" she asked, amazed. "I'm not the one who—," she broke off in mid-sentence, shaking her head. "No," she said to herself, "this is _not_ worth getting into." She turned and began to walk away.

"Don't turn your back on me," Iris said, reaching for Joan's shoulder, and then everything happened at once: she tripped, her extended hand smacked into Joan's shoulder and knocked the books from her arms, and Joan fell forwards, catching herself with her hands but still whacking her forehead against a corner locker.

Grace turned to Iris, and gave her a funny little smile. "I'm going to enjoy this," she said.

_Later_

Helen was leafing through the folder, looking for clues, when a tap at the door interrupted her.

"Mrs. Girardi?" Ryan Hunter said, stepping into the room and shutting the door as he spoke. "Are you busy?"

"Not really, no," she said, and smiled at him. "I've finished grading everything, and I'm expecting students to drop by and pick up their portfolios." Her voice trailed off.

Ryan gestured at the folder in front of her. "A promising student?" he asked. "Or a hopeless case?"

"A very promising student—at least, I thought so," Helen said, a small frown breaking through the polite smile. "I mean, she's really good, and I thought she could make a lot of progress." She shrugged and tried to speak lightly. "Turns out she's dropping art after this semester, so I guess I didn't have as much to teach her as I thought."

Ryan studied her face carefully. "You're disappointed," he said. It wasn't a question. "She disappointed you," he clarified.

Helen pushed her fingers through her hair. "I am disappointed," she said. "I feel like I'm being frozen out, and I have no idea why." She shook her head. "Enough of me babbling. What brings you here today?"

At just that instant there was a loud knock at the door, which swung open before she had time to move. "Mrs. Girardi, you're needed down in my office," Mr. Price said irritably, and then caught sight of Ryan. "Ah, Mr. Hunter. Good to see you. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?" His tone indicated that he very much doubted he was, but would defer to the other man's judgment.

"Mr. Price, what do you want?" Helen asked tiredly.

He smirked at her. "Joan's been in a fight," he told her, sounding pleased.

Helen looked taken aback. "You mean like an argument?" she asked.

"No, I mean like a catfight," Price replied. "The three girls involved are in my office. And your daughter is one of them—I can't say I'm surprised."

Helen looked horrified. "Mr. Hunter, can I get back to you?" she asked, already on her feet.

"Go, go," he said cheerfully, waving her towards the door. She followed Price outside, not seeming to notice that Ryan made no effort to get up, but remained seated in her office. Once they had gone, he reached across the desk for the folder she had been examining, and began flipping through the vivid pictures of flames, looking highly amused. "This," he said to the empty room, "will be too easy."


	2. Chapter Two

In Price's office Joan, Grace and Iris were uncomfortably seated on straight-backed wooden chairs. Iris, Helen was horrified to see, was holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her nose, and Joan was developing a large bruise on her forehead. "Oh my God, Joan," Helen said, "what happened?"

"I'm okay, Mom, don't worry," Joan said hastily.

"I'm not sure that's the only thing I'm worried about," said Helen, looking at Iris as she spoke.

"Mrs. Girardi," Grace butted in, "that was my fault. I mean, it was me, not Joan. I hit her."

"Hoodlums," Price muttered with grim satisfaction. No one bothered to look at him.

"No," Iris spoke up, her high-pitched voice slightly muffled, "it was my fault. I mean, Grace hit me, but it was after I accidentally shoved Joan."

"I lost my balance and hit my head on the locker," Joan explained, "after Squeaky here attacked me. Though I wasn't being very nice to you," she admitted to Iris. "I can sort of see why you lost it."

"You're never nice to me," Iris pointed out, and her bluntness startled Joan into smiling. "It was no reason to shove you," Iris continued, "and it was supposed to be a smaller shove than it turned out to be. Sorry." She smiled slightly at the memory. "Although I did kind of enjoy it," she admitted.

"Not half as much as I enjoyed taking a swing at you," Grace said fervently, and Joan snorted. Even Iris still looked reluctantly amused.

"See? See?" Price said.

"See what, Mr. Price?" Helen snapped. "I see three girls attempting to apologize to each other—granted, they shouldn't have resorted to fighting in the first place," she glared at Joan, who had the sense to look ashamed, "but I'm sure they know that. I hardly think you needed to drag me down here."

"Your daughter," Price huffed, "was fighting in the school corridor."

"My daughter," she answered patiently, "was, if you were listening to any of that, not fighting at all—someone pushed her, and someone else hit that person. I realize you lack listening skills, Mr. Price, but even you should have been able to sort this one out unaided, without making it out to be something bigger than it is. Girls, get up, and get to class."

"Wait a minute—they can't leave, I haven't punished the guilty parties," Price objected, but Helen cut him off.

"Mr. Price," she said sweetly, "you couldn't locate a 'guilty party' with two hands and a flashlight. Now, I don't know about you, but I have actual work to do."

"Mrs. Girardi," Grace said admiringly once they were clear of the office, "that was awesome."

"Get to class, all of you," Helen said grimly, "and whatever this was? Find some other way to deal."

_meanwhile _

Bonnie edged into Mrs. Girardi's office soundlessly, head down, hating to be there. She took in Mrs. Girardi's absence with a sense of relief, and, ignoring the strange man sitting at the desk, began to search quickly through the folders spread across a nearby table. With any luck, she could find hers and be out of there before the art teacher got back. She quickly reached the end of the folders, then started over again at the beginning, beginning to panic: where was hers?

"Is this yours?" the man asked, and she turned and saw that her artwork was lying on the desk in front of him.

"Yes," she said.

He looked from her to the folder and then back up at her again, one eyebrow lifted. "What made you decide to take art?" he asked, a faint trace of amusement in his voice, and she felt her self-esteem plummet to her toes.

"A…friend encouraged me to," she said in a small voice.

"Ah," he said. "Well, then. The friend must have thought you had talent." He sounded skeptical, as though it was hard to believe anyone would think that. Bonnie couldn't answer. "After all," he continued, "you should trust your friends, right? This was someone you trusted?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "I trusted him."

"There you go then," the man said with false cheerfulness, shuffling her drawings back into the folder and handing it over. She took it in numb fingers and held it protectively to her chest. "He must really have believed you have talent, then. It's not like he had anything to gain by lying to you, right?"

"I have to go," Bonnie said, her voice toneless, stripped of feeling. She pulled a book of Hieronymus Bosch paintings from her shoulder bag and laid it on the desk, then fled, not sure whether she really heard mocking laughter following her or if she only imagined it.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** Neither the characters nor setting belong to me, and no money is being made from this fanfic.

Back in her now-empty office, Helen noticed that Bonnie's portfolio was gone and her Bosch book had been returned. Great; now she might never have a chance to talk to Bonnie and convince her to take art for another term, or at least find out why she'd decided to leave the class. "Another lost opportunity," Helen said out loud, sitting down an d sighing deeply.

"It's a big responsibility," agreed a sympathetic voice, and Helen looked up to see a janitor had entered the room and was reaching for the wastebasket. "Teachers are told they're supposed to shape young minds, but that can take a lifetime—it's not something that happens all at once."

"Sometimes I feel like I've lost sight of the whole 'shaping young minds' thing," Helen admitted. "It's all I can manage to cover the course material and teach them technique; I don't know if I'm having any impact on their actual lives." She looked more closely at the janitor. "I don't remember seeing you before," she said. "Are you new?"

The woman chuckled. "Oh, I'm always around," she assured Helen. "You must just not have noticed me. Sometimes people get so busy," she shook her head, "it's just hard to connect." She headed out of the room, turning back at the door to add, "Of course, it's important to keep up the connections we've already made, too. Especially when it's with one of those young minds we were talking about—they take rejection so much to heart, at that age, and they're just so ready to see rejection even where none is intended."

Alone again, Helen found herself thinking about Adam. They hadn't spoken much in the past few weeks, and she'd been glad; whatever the particulars were of what had happened between him and Joan, Helen doubted her own ability to empathize with the boy who had, for whatever reason, cheated on her daughter. Now, though, having had a little time to absorb the shock, she found she had a little room for concern about Adam as well. Why had he done something so out of character?

With a small pang of guilt, Helen acknowledged to herself that Adam was probably hurting too, and that her own avoidance of him must have felt like an out-and-out rejection. Maybe, she thought, I should try to talk to him. It wasn't fair to blame him for not handling things maturely: he wasn't mature, he was a kid, a work in progress.

_meanwhile_

Adam, feeling numb, was at that moment clearing out his locker. It was weird, he thought, how much had happened since the last time he'd done this. Everything from the past few months felt raw, unprocessed, out of place, as if he hadn't stepped back and gotten the perspective he needed.

Things were calm between him and Joan, but still, he thought, out of focus. Nothing harmonious had emerged yet; they'd just stopped clashing. At least, he told himself, I've stopped trying to gloss over it. That's progress, right?

But things still felt so wrong. For some reason, Ryan Hunter's face kept flashing into his mind. There was something about that guy. It was like someone had thrown a brick instead of dropping a pebble, and now there weren't ripples: there were waves.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** Neither the characters nor setting belong to me, and no money is being made from this fanfic.

Joan woke, gasping, from the nightmare. "Am I going to have that dream every night?" she asked out loud, trying to shake off her fear.

"I don't know, but I doubt it," said Judith, and Joan turned her head to see her friend sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed. "Reruns get old fast."

"Hey," Joan said, joy and sadness flooding her. "You know, I still really miss you."

"I know," said Judith. "I really do."

"I mean," said Joan, tears shining in her eyes, "I know the whole 'matter is never created or destroyed' thing, but still. It really sucks that you're gone, and that I only get these little glimpses of you. It sucks to miss you."

Judith stood, stooped to hug Joan, and told her, "The thing is, Joan, we got to be friends. I got to have someone who mattered enough to me that I miss you, and I know you miss me. I know it hurts, but it would suck even more if it didn't."

Joan smiled, tearfully. "I know," she said.

Judith gave her one last, impetuous hug. "I know you know," she said. "Just remember: being all alone in the dark is way worse than having someone to miss. Especially," she struck a pose, "someone as fantabulous as me." With a scatter of prisms, she stepped through the wall and was gone.

Joan realized she could hear voices downstairs. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and tiptoed down, pausing at the door to the kitchen.

"I just can't believe it," her mother was saying.

"Was she a friend of Joan's?" Joan heard her father ask.

"Not really," Helen said. "At least, I don't think so. I think Adam knew her better."

Luke broke in angrily. "Yeah, he sure did!"

There was a pause. "Which means what?" their father asked him, raising his voice.

"It means she's, you know, she's the one who," Luke sputtered, "the girl who Adam—"

"What's going on?" Joan asked, more loudly than she'd intended, and they all turned to look at her, standing there in her pajamas. She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter.

"There was an…incident," her father began, and stopped.

"It was Bonnie," Luke said roughly. "She jumped off the balcony of her apartment." He looked angry.

"Oh my God," said Joan, shocked.

"Honey," said Helen gently, "she's alive. I mean, she might—they took her to the hospital. She might pull through." Joan couldn't answer. "Come sit down," Helen said.

"I'll make hot chocolate," Luke offered.

"No," Joan said. "I just want to be alone for a minute. Okay? I'll just be out on the front porch." No one tried to stop her when she left.

What seemed like a long time later, but was probably less than half an hour, Helen opened up the front door. "Joan, you should come inside," she said worriedly. "We're all on our way to bed."

"Mom," Joan said firmly, "I can't go to bed yet. I just can't. I need some time to think. I'll be fine; I'm only on the front porch, nothing can happen to me. Just go, okay? Let me have some space."

Helen looked reluctant, but left, closing the door, and a few minutes later Joan saw the lights go out, except for the one just inside the front door. She huddled in her blanket and shivered.

"You look cold," a voice said, and Ryan emerged from the shadows. He walked soundlessly up the steps and sat next to her, putting one arm around her shoulders.

"Have you lost your mind?" she hissed, trying to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

"I just thought—will you stop wriggling? I'm not going to bite—I should check in and see how you feel," he said. She stared up at him.

"Oh," she said after a minute. "You know because of the police? About Bonnie, I mean."

He didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "Why are you pretending to be upset about this? Aren't you glad she's out of the way?"

This time Joan succeeded in moving away from him. "That's a horrible thing to say!" she told him, glaring.

He shrugged. "And it's a horrible thing to feel, I suppose, but that doesn't make it less real. Why are you bothering to lie to me about this, Joan? I can see why you can't tell anyone else; they'd think less of you. But I don't, Joan. I will never, ever make you ashamed of anything you feel."

"It's true," Joan said quietly, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. "Part of me was glad. Just a little. Part of me thought: Bonnie deserves this. She ruined my life; now she's ruined her own."

Ryan slid along the front porch and put his arm around Joan's waist. "I won't ever tell," he promised, and lowered his head to lick the tears from her face, savouring her moment of weakness.


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** Neither the characters nor setting belong to me, and no money is being made from this fanfic.

The next morning Joan raced through the hallway to get to Adam's locker. "Adam," she gasped, out of breath, and he looked at her with fathomless dark eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Jane," he said, smiling sadly, and for the first time in a long time she didn't flinch at the nickname, or object to it. She just stood, concern and care etched in her face, waiting for him to speak. "I'm sort of numb," he said. "I'm not sure how I feel about this."

"Me, either," Joan admitted.

"I didn't love her," Adam said. "You know that, right?"

Joan flushed and looked away. "Yeah, I guess," she said.

"Does that," Adam hesitated, aware of the enormity of what he was about to dump on her, aware that he'd thrown away all right to ask her to share his emotional burden, but still needing her. "Does that make this my fault?"

"Oh, Adam," Joan said, meeting his eyes again, her own eyes filling with tears. "No. This is not your fault. This is…too big to be any one person's fault, you know? Even Bonnie's."

And then Iris skidded to a stop next to them, frowning at Joan. "Tell me you're not _so_ wrapped up in yourself and your own problems that you're taking advantage of this situation to get A back," she demanded.

Joan raised one scornful eyebrow. "And you're here to…?" she prompted coolly.

"Make sure Adam is okay!" Iris squeaked.

"Then this is some kind of world record," Joan said, "because for the second time in a row I almost see some point to your existence."

Adam, trying to hide a small smile, said quietly, "I'm all right, Iris. More or less."

"What is this, group therapy?" asked grace, as she and Luke joined them. "You all right, Rowe?" she asked, carefully making the question sound off-hand.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging, "more or less. I guess. Thanks."

"You know what we should do?" Joan asked suddenly, and they all looked at her. "We should all go visit Bonnie in the hospital."

Grace shook her head in disbelief. "Sorry to cast doubt on your precarious mental stability, Girardi," she said, "but are you _nuts_? Isn't that kind of morbid? And say she wakes up while we're there, and her first sight is a delegation of people who, let's face it, she's probably figured out can't stand her."

"The shock could kill her," said Luke, brightening, and Grace shot him a look of disapproval.

"Seriously," she said to Joan, "don't you think we should leave the visiting thing to her actual friends? This is real life, not an after school special."

"Yeah, but does she even have any?" Joan asked. "Any actual friends, I mean? What if we're it?" Everyone fell silent.

Adam was the first one to speak. "You're right," he said softly. "I should do this. I owe her that much."

"We should all go," Joan said again, firmly.

"You don't have to do that," Adam said kindly. "This isn't your problem."

"I know," Joan said, and her voice trembled slightly. "I just can't stand the thought of her being all alone. In the dark."

Meanwhile 

Ryan strode through the school as if he owned it, the same way he walked everywhere, the effect slightly spoiled when a plump janitor joined him, easily matching his stride, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "If you're here to tell me what a bad man I am," Ryan drawled, "you can save your breath. I already know. Anyway, is it my fault your creations are so damned fragile? All it took was one tiny push, one clear view of how worthless she was, and the girl went running to her own destruction."

They rounded the corner, and Ryan stopped abruptly. Ahead of them Joan and a group of people, obviously her friends, were hugging and comforting each other, gathering up bags and books and belongings to head off somewhere together. Clearly together. Ryan's heart ached oddly at the sight, with a tiny throb of pride and envy.

"They are very fragile," Custodian God agreed. "That's why it's amazing that they can be so strong when they need to be."

Out of the corner of her eye Joan saw Ryan and then, shocked, realized Who was standing next to him. At the doors to the school she turned back. "You guys wait here for me," she said. "I just have to grab one thing from my locker, okay? I'll be right back." She dashed back into the school, hurrying to where Ryan stood, alone now.

"Why are you here?" she asked, but not in an unfriendly tone.

"Where are you and the posse headed?" he asked, mildly sarcastic.

"We're going to visit Bonnie," Joan said, "and before you say anything, this isn't about me denying my feelings or suppressing my resentment of her or anything like that. I've just decided that having negative feelings doesn't mean I have to act on them. I mean, those aren't the only feelings I have, so I can choose to act on the other ones—like feeling sorry for her. And worried about Adam."

"How noble," Ryan said.

Joan shrugged. "Whatever," she said. "But for a guy who prides himself on being as 'in control' as you do, I'd think that would be a valuable insight. Being a slave to your own worst feelings isn't what I'd call a major step up from being a pawn of God." She flounced off, leaving Ryan staring after her.


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** Neither the characters nor setting belong to me, and no money is being made from this fanfic.

Joan was trudging home from the hospital when Ryan pulled up beside her. "Hop in," he said, leaning over to open the passenger side door.

She shook her head. "I'm too tired to have an argument with you," she told him, "and I'm on my way home."

"I know," he said cheerfully. "I just came from there."

She stared at him, confused. "You were at my house?" she asked, not liking the idea.

"Yup," he said. "I dropped by to have a heart-to-heart with your mother, about the tragic suicide attempt by one of the Arcadian High students. She mentioned that you'd called to say you were walking home from the hospital, so I suggested," he grinned wolfishly, "that I try to find you en route, and take you out for dinner."

Joan rolled her eyes. "And you expect me to believe that?" she scoffed. "There's no way my mom would be okay with me going out to dinner with you."

"On the contrary, Joan," he said smoothly, his grin widening, "by the time I finished my pitch, she was relieved. She thinks you need to talk, and I've convinced her you'll open up to me more easily than you will to an older authority figure. So: let's go. The doctor is in." He gestured at the car door again. Joan hesitated.

"Let me point out," he added, "that you should actually be grateful—she was talking about sending you to a psychiatrist again."

Joan climbed reluctantly into the car. "Thanks, I guess," she said.

"Don't look so worried," Ryan said. "You can call home when we get there, to let her know you're safe."

"When we get where?" Joan asked. "Where are we going for dinner?"

"My place," he said, as he pulled away from the curb.

At his apartment, Joan sat nervously on the couch while Ryan reached for the phone. "Mrs. Girardi," he said, his polite tone at odds with the smirk on his face. "Just thought you'd like to know I found Joan, so we stopped to call before heading off. No, no problem at all. Here, why don't you say hi," he said, and held the receiver out to Joan.

"Mom?" she said, half believing it wouldn't really be her.

"Joan," her mother said, sounding worried. "I won't keep you long; I don't want to put Mr. Hunter to any more trouble. Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Joan, "of course." She tried to sound cheerful.

"Okay, then," said her mother doubtfully. "Don't stay out late. Will Mr. Hunter drop you off?"

"I'm sure he will," said Joan mechanically, "and I'll try not to be late. Bye." She hung up, feeling completely bewildered, and guiltily aware that she hadn't mentioned the part about staying at his place for dinner.

"Why am I here?" she asked Ryan.

"Because I'm such a kind, caring person, and I'm concerned about the problems facing today's youth," he said, and laughed. "Joan," he said, "you look exhausted. Why don't you go have a shower, while I'm cooking."

"A shower," she repeated, wondering if he were crazy.

"Yes, a shower," he repeated patiently, putting his hands on her shoulders and spinning her around, then gently pushing her down the hallway. "You know: hot water, soap? You'll feel more human afterwards, and less like the living dead. There's a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door," he added, and left her there.

Joan locked herself inside the bathroom. She was too exhausted and emotionally drained to think straight, but, she told herself, if her mother knew where she was, surely she was safe. She double-checked the lock, and got undressed.

End of "episode two."

**Author's note:** Episode three, which I'll begin posting in a couple of weeks, is tentatively titled "Put Away Childish Things," and will be rated "M" instead of "T."


End file.
